


La Petite Mort

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Comfort Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Top John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 05:19:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5615353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was always shot in Afghanistan. And he has nightmares. Now he has Sherlock to ground him to the present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Petite Mort

“Captain!” John felt himself dragged, shoulder on fire. The uniform felt different. Wool. Soaked in sweat, blood mingling into the red of the coat. 

“Watson!” The scene shifted in his mind's eye. A private leaning over him, shaking hands staunching the wound. 

Cannons and rifle fire. 

Artillery and machine guns. 

Blood and sand and death and dying. Echoes of war that never changed. The smell of Afghan soil and gunpowder. The feel of a man's life in his hands. The bitter taste of his life slipping away. 

“John.” Sherlock’s hand on his bicep was firm, steady. Grounding. 

Blinking away the war behind his eyes, John sucked in a ragged breath. Baker Street. Sherlock. _Home_. “I'm fine,” he said unsteadily. 

Sherlock didn't answer, merely let go before curling against him, head on his chest as if reassuring himself of John’s heartbeat. 

Smiling softly, John ran fingers through his lover’s hair. 

“You almost died,” said Sherlock softly. 

“It wasn't the first time, just the closest.” John murmured. “I was a soldier.”

“You _are_ a soldier. And a doctor.” Sherlock raised his head to meet his eyes in the dark. 

Reaching up, John cupped his cheek and drew him into a kiss, soft and gentle, reassuring them both. 

Sherlock put his hands on John’s shoulders. He ran his thumb along the scar, feeling it through the fabric of John’s shirt. 

John rolled them over, weight on Sherlock, grounding him, grounding them both. He deepened the kiss and Sherlock’s hands slid down his sides. 

He knew what Sherlock needed. John gently parted Sherlock’s thighs with his knees, rolling his hips against him. Sherlock moaned and nipped at John’s lower lip. 

“I'm here, Sherlock,” said John softly. “Right here, right now.”

“John,” whispered Sherlock, reverently. 

“Let me show you,” said John. He knelt back and hooked his fingers in Sherlock’s pants, dragging them down and off. He peeled off his own shirt and then his pants, kissing Sherlock’s breastbone and taking the lube from him. 

Sherlock drew him down for a kiss as John started to finger him, teasing gently, pulling soft moans from Sherlock. The heat in Sherlock’s eyes was a far cry from the battlefield, his eyes full of want and not fear. 

Home was here, like this, Sherlock in his arms, needy gasps falling from his lips, hands clutching at John’s arms. 

John ducked his head and nuzzled Sherlock’s cock, breathing him in, tongue darting out to taste. 

“I need you,” gasped Sherlock, something so rarely admitted outside this bed. 

“I know,” said John, crooking his fingers and making Sherlock cry out. 

John moved up and kissed him again, pressing carefully into him. Sherlock wrapped long legs around him, encouraging him deeper. 

Working a hand between them, John fucked Sherlock hard, cock sliding through the circle of his hand. Sherlock arched up, grasping at his shoulders. John kissed his throat before raising his head to watch Sherlock’s face. 

It was always amazing to see Sherlock fall apart. He held onto John with one hand, the other twisting in the sheets. He gasped for air, breath ragged, utterly at John’s mercy. 

“Come,” ordered John. And Sherlock did. _La petite mort_. The little death. Sherlock collapsed to the bed, eyes screwed tightly shut as he lay still. John kissed along his jaw, listening to Sherlock’s shuddering breath before picking up his pace again, burying his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. 

Sherlock held him, murmuring in his ear as John chased his orgasm, grunting against his skin. Sherlock was tight and hot, grasping him as he gave one more thrust and came. 

“John,” whispered Sherlock one more time, voice gone rough and impossibly deep. 

John kissed his throat, tasting him. The normal sounds of night returned around them. The sound of traffic, of the house settling. John could feel Sherlock’s heart beating strongly against his own. 

They fell back asleep, Sherlock first. John pulled out and lay against his side. The warmth of Sherlock a much better embrace then the cruel desert sand.

**Author's Note:**

> Written on my mobile and un beta'd so please forgive any errors. You can find me at [merindab.tumblr.com.](http://merindab.tumblr.com/)


End file.
